Until Death Does Us Part
by Hysteria82
Summary: America dies for the first time, and England attempts to comfort him in his 'final' moments. (Coauthor Doodlyood) (Note: This is a sequel to, 'Drowning In Trouble,' but it can be read on it's own.)
1. Preface: Impulsiveness Is Bad

Arthur gritted his teeth for a moment before he was finally forced to spit. He hated spitting, it was so coarse and vulgar, but the air around him was so think with gunpowder that he was sure he'd never get the taste of sulfur out of his mouth again. It was a foul, acrid flavor, and it brought back memories that he didn't care to relive at any moment, let alone in the middle of a war. At least the small sacrifice to his gentility cleared the taste momentarily from his tongue.

Looking up, England was disturbed to notice the air was thick with smoke. Squinting, his sharp, green eyes peered out from where he was hunkered down under the hail storm of German bullets, the snow on the Russian front gray and mottled with blood.

From his position, the nation could see the bodies of the fallen laying on the ground, a mixture of allies : British, American, French, and Russian solders. He could also see the bodies of the the axis solders.

Laid together, in a heap and finally at peace, brothers once more in death.

It was this, that reminded him that he had passed France just a while back.

The frog bastard was doing his best to help out with the movement, something that Arthur had to give him credit for, no matter how much that annoyed him. He had also told him that he had heard that Alfred was somewhere closer to the enemy line, which worried, but didn't surprise England.

Eventually, Arthur had decided that he was going to go after the impulsive American.

o~oOo~o

Hi to all of the old readers who came here after finishing, 'Drowning In Trouble' (and welcome to all the new viewers.) I hope you enjoy the sequel as well as you did the first part. :)


	2. Snipers Suck

Unable to prevent it, (if he wanted to get the grit out of his mouth, anyway,) England spat once more before lifting up out of his hiding spot, and made a push further forward, running past the whispering zing of bullets rushing past him. Panting slightly, the Brit was thankfully when he was able to slide into another covered location, taking a moment to carefully look around for that damn Alfred, while he tried to catch his breath.

He swore, that boy would be the death of him yet, and one that he probably wouldn't come back from.

Mean while, the young man in question was currently hiding in a small ally.

Leaning against the side of the broken building, Alfred took a deep breath of the polluted air only to cough it out along with a mouthful of blood a second later. Absently, the teenager wiped the warm, red liquid from his lips with the back of his hand that he held his gun with as he waited for the fresh wave of gun fire to die as he clenched his other hand to his bloodied gut.

With the bombs and gunfire going off in the back ground, the American nation could almost block out the sound of screams in the distance, though that didn't help the fact that he was pretty sure that he had left half his insides on the ground a ways back, where he had been caught with a large piece of stay debris in the last explosion.

Swallowing down another mouthful of blood, America risked peaking around the corner to check out the situation. Through the crack lenses of Texas, the young nation looked over the shattered land scape, wondering how many of their (HIS) soldiers had fallen by this point, when he caught the movement of a familiar uniform a bit off in the distance.

Ignoring the fact that his fuzzy vision was blurred, not only due to his damaged glasses, but also from blood loss, Al squinted to sharpen his vision enough to make out the details of the mans clothing. 'British,' He decided, after a moment.

It took a few seconds longer before the sandy blond realized exactly who the Brit actually was, though. "England..." America muttered lowly to himself, his thinking feeling slower then normal, then frowned. It was a frustrating that his English comrade would risk showing up at such a dangerous location, but also a relief to see a familiar face.

Watching as the slim man carefully made his way down the dangerous road, Alfred tried to think up ways that he could get the man's attention without giving away either of their locations, and it was then that he caught a familiar glint out of the corner of his eye.

There was a sniper in the building across the street... at the man as a clear shot at England from his location.


	3. Sure Shot

As England moved forward though the active war zone, the island nation found himself extremely concerned about the younger country's well being. He might just be entering the front line, now, but he had seen the explosion from the distance... had heard the screams.

In fact, he was still hearing them.

Sure, as a nation, Arthur was very familiar with death, but that didn't mean that he enjoyed it in anyway. Even when he had been living his life as a pirate and had killed remorselessly, the Brit hadn't exactly liked death. He would admit to enjoying killing his enemies, but even at that time, killing and death were oddly separated in his mind.

Thankfully, he had learned from his mistakes from back then, before he had become some kind of monster.

A little ways off, Alfred continued to watch the nation that had no idea what kind of danger he was in.

Pushing the pain to the back of his mind to the best of his ability, Al shoved away from the building. Making sure to keep one arm wrapped around remains of his midsection, in hopes of halting the bleeding at least a little, the American pulled out his trusty, old, 'Colt' pistol in favor of one of the newer, military guns issued to soldiers.

Kissing the barrel for good luck, Alfred then stepped into sight, took aim, and fired.

The bullet was true to it's mark, and America managed a small, triumphant smile as the gunman fell from his perch in the window, landing only a few yards away from where his comrade was positioned.

If his gun shot hadn't caught England's attention, the falling body certainly would.


	4. Bloody Hell

A gun shot rang out off to his left and England heard it loud as day.

It wasn't the sound of a machine gun, though...perhaps a rifle? Somehow it seemed out of place in his surroundings, but Arthur was distracted by his musings as a body seemingly fell from the sky, and landed rather close to him.

A sniper.

England looked around quickly and immediately spotted America.

When Arthur finally saw him, Alfred offered him a roguish wink and grin, then made a show of twirling his gun on his finger, because there were some things you just HAD to do, despite the circumstances. Shifting to lean against the building once more for support, the injured solider kept his lucky gun ready in case England needed more back up.

"Alfred, you idiot!" Was, of course, the first thing that managed to make it past his lips even though it wasn't necessarily the thing Arthur had really wanted to say, but he decided that he could worry about it later, thinking it best to focus on going over to join the young nation that had just saved him again.

"Thanks and all," he said when he made it safely to America's side, "but you could have gotten yourself- holy shit!" He hadn't noticed the other's injury before. "What the bloody hell, Alfred? You're injured!"

Offering a nod in reply to the 'thanks', Alfred then rolled his eyes as Arthur noticed his wounds, and felt the need to state the obviously. "Yeah, I kinda noticed." He snorted, regretting the action right away due to the sharp pain the sudden exhale of air had caused.

With a sigh, England stepped closer carefully pulled America back, deeper into the safety of the ally he had previously been in. Not seeing a reason to stay out in the open where just anyone could shot at them,America slipped his favored gun into his holster and allowed the other to lead him without a fuss.

"Jesus Alfred, you've been blasted to hell," England remarked with a tut as he did his best to examine the wound around the American's clamped arm, "It's probably mortal... why are you fighting it anyway? Might as well belt up and get it over with, so you can get back to tip top, you realize." Arthur said from experience, knowing that while dying was certainly not fun, not even if you were going to come back to life, that sometimes it was best just to get to over with if there was no getting around it.

o~oOo~o

Who would be a better shot? Vash or Alfred? Hm... that's a hard one. Vash has been at it for a lot longer then Al, but I think it might come down to the type of gun used. The cowboy in America would make him great with pistols, but Vash is probably better with rifles. Just my opinion though. /shrug


	5. Never Say Die

Leaning against the wall, (because he wasn't going to sit down, he was going to remain standing, dammit!,) Alfred panted lightly as England looked over the wound, clearly over reacting... or so Al told himself.

The English man's suggestion to just 'give up and die' caught Alfred a bit off guard, but after the surprise wore off, America sneered and looked away.

"Well, excuse me if... Keeling over wasn't exactly on my to do list." Al replied sarcastically and tightened his grip on his stomach as he looked out over the small bit of the battle field he could see from their current location. "Look, I'm healin'... I just, I just need a breather, is all." He said, telling England the same thing he had been telling himself since he had first gotten the serious wound, trying to ignore the fact that while his flesh really was mending quickly, par normal for their kind, his blood flowing out faster then his body could replace.

"Alfred," Arthur began, a bit incredulously, "You must realize that you're losing blood much to quickly. You're not going to be able to heal before you bleed to death. My goodness, you're not that oblivious are you?" Surely he wasn't. The island nation patted Alfred's shoulder reassuringly and said, "If I didn't know any better... I'd say you were acting like you've never died before, America."

"You're saying that like not dying's a bad thing!" America snapped, shaking England's hand off despite the pain the jolt caused, still refusing to look at the man.

Taking a deep breath to try and slow down his heart rate, thus slowing his pulse and bleeding by default, the teenager then wrapped his other arm around his waist along side the first... to help stop the bleeding, not as a gesture of self comfort, because he wasn't scared, and England's persistence that he was going to die wasn't bring up fears that he had been ignoring since the explosion had happen, or anything...

England's eyes widened. Holy crap... America hadn't died before! It was suddenly quite obvious, thanks to youth's reaction.

All at once an avalanche of guilt fell on the Brit's shoulders. Not only had been extremely cavalier, and almost callous, about the whole situation... but this meant that Alfred had also risked dying for the first time when he saved him from the sinking ship, several weeks back and (no, it did NOT make him blush,) it only made him feel worse when he realized just how... truly brave, and probably scared, the young nation had been then as well.

With his mind swimming with guilt, Arthur bit his lip for a moment before speaking, "Oh, I'm so sorry... I... I just assumed that..." What was he even trying to say?

"What can I say? I'm just too awesome to die." Al replied stubbornly with a statement of self grandeur to help keep his own spirits up when he realized that Arthur had realized his... inexperience in this matter. It was a technique he had learned from Prussia years ago, back during his revolution, that worked surprisingly well most of the time.

It really was amazing what sheer pig-headed stubbornness could get you... most of the time.


	6. Not Alone

Remembering back to the first time he had died, the first few times actually, England had been younger than even Alfred had been now. No one had been there for him back then... not that anyone had been there for him since then, either.

The Brit absently recalled a list of things that he must have kept stored, somewhere in his mind, the steps of how it felt when you were dying, a slow death at least. You denied it for a while, and then you started to feel numb. Then you felt cold, and everything got bright before it faded out into blackness... but he had always felt so alone. He refused to let Alfred feel that way.

"Come on, idiot." Arthur said without any venom in his voice in reply, gently reaching out and doing his best to lead the American over to one of the lesser damaged buildings.

Alfred stood there, next to the other nation silently and shifted slightly at the awkward feeling that had filled the air. It was almost a relief when Arthur finally spoke up to insult him, and the teen turned his head to glance at the man, checking to make sure that there would be no more statements of death forth coming, before following as requested.

Kicking down a door, Arthur led the injured soldier into the room, bringing him over to an, admittedly ratty, sofa. "Come on," the island nation coaxed again. "Will you please sit down?" He asked, attempting to handle the situation delicately, now that he understood the circumstance.

When Arthur finally stop, the teen spared enough energy to lift his head only to glare at the sofa before him, like it was some sort of enemy. He wasn't weak, he could fuckin' stand and even fight if he had to... Hell, didn't he just save Arthur a minute ago? He tense slightly, waiting for the Englishman to try and convince him to sit down so that he could argue with him, but luckily, the Brit followed it up with an excuse good enough for Alfred to finally give in.

"You're not going to stop bleeding by standing up..."

That meant he wasn't being weak, he was just doing what needed to be done to survive.

Nodding his agreement, America managed to stumble along on his own well enough for the first part of their short trip, but before they had even managed to crossed the heavily damaged room, over to where the couch was, the younger solider had been forced to lean heavily on Arthur's shoulder for support, depending almost fully on the smaller man to carry him the last few feet as he panted heavily, whatever blood he was unable to swallow slowly dripping down the side of his mouth in a small stream.


	7. Hard To Accept

Reaching their goal, Alfred released Arthur and plopped down heavily onto the ratty piece of furniture with a wince when, for the first time ever in his long life, his strong limbs failed him.

England waited patiently for the other to settle down on the sofa. "Please, let me really get a look at it? I can't tell exactly where you've been shot, love..." He requested softly, already removing his coat, then his shirt, preparing to make a tourniquet, if only to make the young nation feel better.

Breathing heavily, America pushed through the sudden rush of pain. Hazily, he then reached up to wipe the sweat and blood from his face, carelessly knocking his glasses, 'Texas', to the ground without concern, and looked back to England. Seeing him remove his clothing confused him for a second before he realized what exactly the man was doing. "Okay. Yeah..." Al nodded in agreement and slowly slid his arm away from his midriff, looking away from his stomach so that he didn't have to look at his own shredded and missing flesh from the explosion again.

Once Arthur got a very clear view of Alfred's wound, he knew for a fact that his estimate had been correct. That was a mortal wound. America had to be missing massive pieces of his innards somewhere out on that battlefield, along with vast amounts of his blood.

While deciding what he was going to do, Arthur bent down and carefully picked up 'Texas', folding the glasses neatly and setting them down beside him so that they wouldn't be forgotten.

"Ah, I see what you mean Alfred," England began kindly, "I've seen much worse wounds, let's just apply some pressure to it..." Very carefully, he pressed his shirt to the injury, making sure not to cringe when Al's blood began to stain the fabric.

Shutting his eyes, Alfred let out a shuddered breath and nodded, gladly accepting the kind assurance even though, deep down, he knew Arthur's words were a lie. "Ye, yeah... " The teen paused to shiver. "Told ya I was...fine. Just dandy even." Al lied in return, laughing lightly as he forced a smile, his normally pearly white teeth stain pink with blood.

Reaching up with a gentle hand, Arthur carefully smoothed Alfred's hair from his face and continued to speak in a warm, comforting voice even as his green eyes began to water, "There, see? I bet you don't feel it much anymore, right?"

Concentrating on breathing, the America remained slouched on the couch, panting, and not opening his eyes until his companion's words really registered, and Alfred glanced down at his own stomach, surprised to see Arthur's hand pressed against his stomach.

When had that happen?

"No... not really. Not anymore. Hmm... How 'bout that." Alfred chuckled again, his laughter only stopping when another coughing fit over came him.

Once he could breath again, Al spoke softly, "... That's not... really a good thing, though, huh? Not feelin' it, I mean." America stopped, taking a moment to spit out a fresh mouthful of clotting blood. "Ah, fuck... How long, ya think it's gonna take?" The younger nation then asked, finally accepting the inevitable, and awkwardly tried to focus on his England's face as he forced his hand shaking hand onto his stomach, settling his palm over the smaller man's hand, which was already there, using the unspoken excuse of helping to hold the cloth in place as an excuse for physical contact.


End file.
